A great deal of time is spent writing. Somehow it’s easier writing in the sun under a tree while the cats park off next to me. My Mother told me for as long as she can remember, whenever I was upset, I would run into my room and start writing. Nothing much has changed. I told a friend that music (performing) is my great exhale, the release of everything I feel keenly. Writing allows me to understand those, whether true or imaginary.
Anyhoo, there it is…sprinkles of thought. In no particular order. Bits and bobs of the book I wrote
Every illusion carries within itself not only the poison but the cure. When you encounter one who is false, rage dear child. Curse, hurl plates at the walls or drink until you can no longer remember your name! Rage until the fire purifies. In those flames not only the illusion you carry will be known but a deeper truth about yourself revealed.
Those we are destined to love will always find us. Circular is our world and the curvature of our hearts.
Yet, as your days grow longer, remember this. His eyes that glimmer with light, his hands that knot your being with desire, his melodious voice that stills your raging storms will fade. With each growing hour you will remember less. Less and less until you have forgotten you once knew one such as him. For that is our gift to you.’
Love is the primary subject of song writing. It depends on how aware people are and what they have to say or want to say about current political affairs. It’s really a choice: each writer is inspired by different things. I think we’re vaguely freer but what is freedom? We’re tied to audiences, pitching and albums selling. The warden is as much a prisoner as the inmate because he has to stay there too…
I think music is a great psychologist you have access to. You pour out your feelings but that’s not enough. You need to show and tell those you love how you feel. Life isn’t a musical; they’re not going to sing a verse back at you.
I will let you touch my skin. My smooth brown skin but when you do – listen to my pleading song as your skin becomes mine. Forgotten memories run wild underneath; your early morning sun, mother laughing, father smiling, dirt under your fingernails and girls teasing. Of innocence forgotten and a heart that knew only how to dive off razor sharp cliffs.
Touch my skin lover, my smooth brown skin but listen to my pleading song as you do. It is a call of remembrance and was always yours alone .
“Mother, why do some people make is so hard for you to love them?” A million things raced through my mind. Perhaps they were not the right person for you. Perhaps they came to show you perspective. Nonsense answers. Nonsense – all of them!
” Don’t hope, pray or beg for love baby. Ask for the strength to show kindness instead and to not be afraid.”